


What's His Fucking Problem?! (Oh dude I just like you)

by gustin_puckerman



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Anxiety Attacks, Closeted Character, Friends to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Slow Burn, but shit will get real at some point, in the meantime there're a lot of just cute shit tbh, this fanfic isn't as depressing as the tags suggested
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-11 18:35:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12941262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gustin_puckerman/pseuds/gustin_puckerman
Summary: "So, you're gay, right?" Isn't what Marco has expected to come from the new kid with half his face bruised, but that's what happened anyway. Or the story of how Marco was outed by Jean, who just transferred, and things got a little better — and then bad — and then just weird.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired greatly by Johanna The Mad's art, [linked here](http://johannathemad.tumblr.com/post/70568783508/shoujo-intensifies#notes), and I thought I'd give a spin to it. Warning that it may not follow any specific education system because I know about 20% (possibly less) of how school worked for everybody else who are not in my country. (This is possibly more than what I know about my school education in my own country.)
> 
> Also a warning that Jean/Marco is a guarantee, but it may not be as _immediate_ as some of you, or myself, have expected it to be. Another warning is that I am an inconsistent writer, but uhhh I try not to be? I'm hoping that I _won't be_ is what I meant. So hopefully my inspiration and motivation to see this fic to the end will be present until it reaches the final dot.

The sound of the ambience in the room is sticky.

That probably doesn't make sense, but Jean has no idea how else to describe the exact way the stilled air in the atmosphere feels to him aside from the fact that he remembers a piece of memory from when he was eight, and his grandmother was ripping a used bandage because it was doing a poor job of concealing some cut or other which Jean got from — hell, maybe it was from one of the times he was bullied, he really doesn't care to remember — and he remembers spending a good amount of time planting his finger against the skin because it was, you know, _sticky_.

Jean didn't like the stickiness, by the way — and he thinks he just prodded on it a lot, which grandmother swatted his hand at a couple of times when he did, because it was something new and unusual. No eight year old was going to leave something "new and unusual" alone. No. Eight year olds are dumb and stupid, so they thrive on doing shit that they're not supposed to do.

Jean guesses being eight and _eighteen_ _year old_ hadn't changed much for him, because half of his face is numb as shit from where he was hit, and — you know. It was really dumb. 

Well, no. It wasn't. What happened to him wasn't dumb at all, Jean didn't think. If he'd given a chance to do it again, he wouldn't even hesitate to say his 'yes' and run rampage with the opportunity. But the pain that came with it _was_ unpleasant. After all, half of Jean's face was bandaged. He got about thirty-nine stitches at two part of his face; one of his ribs are broken and bruised; and his left eye are almost nearly permanently damage. Doctor said it might not be as good as it was, but he wasn't blind, so that should be good enough.

Another thing that was unpleasant come the few days in the aftermath of his "Doomed Day" — as dubbed by Connie and Sasha, his two most closest friend which he doesn't really regard as friends because, uh, Jean has a _reputation to maintain_ , but are also the one pair Jean would fight the world for — was the visit from his headmaster, Willy Tybur, saying disappointedly how Jean was suspended and, thankfully, the other party wasn't interested in pressing charges.

That was the initial plan, anyway, but his parents, it seems, have a different idea altogether.

"It'll be good idea, wouldn't it, Jeanbo?"  _Maman_ spoke about a week after Jean had been given a date of his release, spreading the brochures and pamphlets all across his bed about some prestigious private school where you have to wear _uniforms_ just to attend it. Usually, Jean is more than inclined to disagree — he doesn't see the point of going so far into some place where there more hills than there were buildings considering he was born a city kid — but given his position, and the fact he kind of really didn't want to go back to Sentsui High due to the Doomed Day, he accepted with nothing more than a grunt.

It also didn't help that said prestigious school was where _Papa_ attended when he was young, so _Papa_ had some connections into convincing the headmaster into agreeing letting Jean in — despite that it's already two months passed into the first semester of Jean's senior year.

 _Papa_  was surprisingly kind throughout the whole process. Well, _kinder_ than Jean has ever seen him been. Jacques Kirstein was definitely not a gentle man, not by a long shot, with his looming figure and thick facial hair and an expression suggesting he's either mildly irritated or extremely irritated and nothing in between, so it was quite a surprise to stay awake from such an incident and not to have _Papa_  breathing down his collar.

 _Papa_ still confronted Jean about what happened, though, and though it took about two weeks for him to finally spit it out, the hug that Jacques encased Jean in was warm and surprising after Jean finished explaining, stuttering and stammering he was. "You're one special brand of idiot, son." _Papa_ didn't chuckle, but his tone was close to that, or so Jean liked to think, when he struggled not to wet his father's clothes with his ugly tears. "But I'm always going to be on your side, you hear me? _You're my fucking son_. Moronic as you are." And that was that.

Jean's jaw still hurts from moving rapidly or, like, _strongly_.

Like, you know, he can't chew loudly, or talk too much. A lot of the muscles on his face still hurts, actually, but the kind of hurt that you'll only feel the pain _if_ you touch the open wound. It doesn't really hurt like the first few times Jean was conscious at the hospital and everything felt so tender and raw and he hated everything he did until he remembered _why_ he did it. Whatever. The air is sticky, and Jean feels like he needs to concentrate on something. So, focusing on how much his skin has grown stronger since the docs hadn't had a need to keep him in the ward is an appropriate distraction.

Jean is careful to not eye the blazer  _Maman_ had pressed for him on the bed.

Jean doubted he'll be wearing them as frequently as the school probably demands its pupils to wear. There're assemblies, Jean thinks, from where his right eye can still work and glaze over the information he actually cares to read, so he might just be able to spare it during those times and specifically those times. Jean had little memory of him being in a suit and actually liking the experience: he usually wears them if _Papa_ ever gets invited to one of his many dinner events, or, like, if there are funerals. And none of those were good times.

Jean heaves a sigh, and glances at the phone which is splaying a bunch of texts from Connie and Sasha and their displeasing comments on his move.

They've known it for weeks, and they still make such a big fuss about it. _Idiots_. But the corner of Jean's lips are curled regardless, pleasant at the idea that he will be missed. He knows some of the people in Sentsui are probably glad he won't be coming again come this Monday morning, but Jean tries not to think about that. He rolls over on his bed, careful not to wrinkle the blazer, and unlock his screen to finally answer ConSash and several other texts from his sports curricular circle.

On the other side of town, two-hour drive away, Marco heaves a large breath of air as the game halts to a stop. 3-1, in ninety minutes. Not bad. His chest is heaving under his sweaty shirt, before he feels a couple of body tackles him to the ground. He hears Samuel's voice ringing in his ears, loud and cheerful and deep, exclaiming how Marco's pass was just the stuff of dreams, while Mylius, somewhere on Marco's back, is just roaring with glee. It isn't until a tall figure approaching them that Marco's teammates finally disperses, cackling and filled with boyish excitement, while Marco still struggles to catch his breath. He's smiling though, so it's okay.

He looks up and Bertholdt is smiling kindly. Marco pretends his chest isn't skipping a beat. "Nice game." Bertl holds out a hand, his other one pinching on his shirt to help wipe the sweat around the space across his upper lips. Marco is suddenly so envious over a piece of cloth - and quickly, he realises he's pathetic. He just hopes nobody mistakes the pink across his cheeks as a legitimate blush rather than the exhilaration that comes from assisting a score to a football game.

"You weren't so bad yourself, Captain." Marco cheekily replies, his voice cool and light, as it always is, as he's pulled into a standing position. He realises then that that's another thing to pile up in his laundry basket that night. Gross.

Bertholdt has a similar pink to his cheeks now that Marco's closer in heights, but he's sure Bert's colours are much prettier than Marco's could ever be. His skin is fairer, soft-looking, and while acnes do make its appearances, it doesn't deter at all the charm Bert usually possesses. Or maybe that's just the infatuation talking. Marco can get carried away with those. Just look at the poetries and lame short stories he'd hide under his pillows. "Could've been better," Bert admits, shrugging a shoulder. "I'm a little disappointed that the freshmen couldn't have defended better against the seniors, but — well. It's just a play practise. They were having fun."

"They did. And you too, right?"

Bert's expression softens at this, his smile soft and gentle on his sweating face, and Marco knows his evening couldn't get any better. "Y-yeah. Yeah, I did. I'm glad we did this."

Marco beams at that, wide and prideful, clasping a hand right at the centre of Bert's back as they all head to the locker's room. The evening sun is warm on their backs. Marco looks up and wonders how tomorrow'll be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspirations for Jean's father is taken primarily from Justin Halpern's "Shit My Dad Says" Saga which I am embarrassingly in love with. Unfortunately, I am planning to set most of this fanfiction from Marco's points of view so I'm not sure how many times I'll be featuring Mr. Kirschtein. Here's to hoping a lot anyways.


	2. Chapter 2

On the first day Jean Kirstein has moved into Jinae's All Boys Private High, it was a _commotion_.

Now, normally, any stereotypical literature dictates that whenever a new student moves in, suddenly it's such _a big deal_. It's the moment where everything changed for the people in that particular town. Marco has exhausted these sort of plotline countless of times, have swallowed and digested and criticised how overused it's been again and again. But Marco would also like to argue that the situation right now might not be exactly the _same_ as how it's been written countless of times beforehand, so it warrants the commotion that comes with it.

How, you might ask?

Jean Kirstein arrives at the step of Jinae High's West entrance, with his jacket unbuttoned and half of his face... — er, how do you say it? Well, in it's simplest term, it's unrecognisable. Which is ironic, considering the exact same thing that has been described upon him is also what makes him stands out the most.

There are plasters everywhere, in all sizes, across his face and — if you're expert in looking carefully — around his knuckles too. Not that it helps: the bruises were obvious, purple and dark and yellow all at once, when it peeks out from all of the white cottons, and the skin which have been abused are swollen and bumpy in comparison to a healthy eighteen year old's typical face. The added eyepatch across the Jean Kirstein's right eye hadn't helped in making whatever heaps of rumours the school start disperse so easily.

It was just... _God_. It was like the New Student was in a very bad car accident, and the hospital was eager to kick him out to here.

That was one of the rumours, by the way.

Others include, but not limited to: the New Student was an heir to a mafia group and was sent in to Jinae for a better protection since he got jumped in his last establishment.  The New Student was on some juvenile-parole for picking a serious fight in his previous school and now was expected to be disciplined under their headmaster, Erwin Smith's, supervision. (They have all always suspected Mr. Smith was a freelance military operative, so this really fuelled up the rumour.) The New Student was rescued from a very poor background when he was getting beaten and was offered a scholarship in an attempt to "turn a new leaf".

Like previously stated, a _commotion_.

Marco, of course, has the grace to hear all about it on Monday right after the assembly ends quite abruptly when Mr. Smith wasn't available to deliver his weekly speeches. "It's because he's with the new delinquent kid, man! I'm telling you!" Mylius boasts this particular information as students disperse despite being asked to walk in straight lines right back to their respective classes.

Thomas joins in their group just as Bertholdt sniffs into the air, the telltale of his nervousness beginning which, Marco supposes, happens at the mention of 'delinquent'. There's an embarassing wish he lodges right in his chest that he could just shift his hand and rub Bert's back soothingly without it being considered, you know, _gay_. But as it is, he only settles with a half-smile, before turning to Mylius when Thomas agrees, "Yeah, Zachary from Baseball saw him walking into the office with Smith and man, he looks _wrecked_."

"It don't look like a car accident. Or else he would've wrecked more than just his face, y'know?" Mylius adds, fingers hovering over the supposedly damaged areas — particularly the right side — and visibly shivers. Several feet away, Marco catches a few students discussing the same. Thomas cuts in, "What's his name again? John? John, _yeah_. Whatever. He's in Dazz's class. I bet _he's_ gonna have a field trip with that."

"We have Biology with Dazz's class, don't we? On Thursday?" Bert queries - maybe his nervousness doesn't exactly expel his curiosity from wanting to see the new student, himself. Marco has to admit he feels the same way. Normally he doesn't like being one of the crowds who 'oohs' and 'ahhs' at any person as though they're a spectacle to be seen at zoos or exhibits in the museum. But humans and humans: to deny themselves of curiosity is impossible. If we're not curious, horror stories wouldn't be so profusely made now, would it?

Still, it's wrong. Marco vows silently not to let these rumours get to him.

Maybe there's another whole story behind all of the bruises and cuts. 

Marco is certain that, at the very least, the new student isn't some sort of a delinquent or somebody who's riddled with criminal records — Jinae Private High doesn't just give out _invitations_  to just about anybody. To acquire an invitation is already a process consisting of an exam and an interview. Marco, himself, in an attempt to get a full scholarship, has to take an exam and passes _three_ interviews. Any slight mistake in his grades or attendance would have resulted easily in him getting called into the counsellor's office. _That_ , Marco knew from an incident in his sophmore year, wasn't a fun trip.

"Yup. But I bet he's gonna come running to us soon, talking about it." Mylius adds just as Thomas snickers, "Dazz can't keep a fucking secret even if his life depends on it."

"You mean, _especially_ if his life depends on it." Samuel interrupts from where he's been walking just slightly behind, causing Thomas and Mylius to chortle more obnoxiously, and Marco doesn't hesitate on eyeing Samuel's neat blazer — pressed and aligned — with his hands tucked into the pockets of his khakis handsomely, as though he hasn't bustled out of the same auditorium in a pile of pushing boys like the rest of them. Marco wonders what's his secret for appearing so cool. Maybe he's found a secret door that would have left him pristine and seemingly untouched wherever he goes. "Are we talking about the New Kid? He's from the city, ain't he?"

"Don't know." Marco supplies before more theories of the New Kid's origin can fly from Thomas and Mylius' mouths, "You seen him, Sammy?"

"Zack from Baseball's been talking about it. Ronnie too, from a grade below us? The rowing team. They got a glimpse of him before they all hustled into assembly." Samuel replies gruffly, before he lifts a hand up to scratch at his nose. "I saw him too, I guess. When he moved into the dorm? He's roomed with a Franz, and the little shit won't say a thing."

"You _saw_ him? Does he seriously look like a victim of _The Purge_?" Thomas knocks into Samuel then, making the older guy winces, which Thomas barely takes a notice at when he merely imitates the sound of a voice Marco recognises from the very same movie franchise he mentioned, " _This is your emergency broadcast announcing the commencement of the annual Purge_."

"Oh, shut _up_." Samuel hisses, shrugging his shoulders just hard enough that Thomas would drop his hand from his ironed blazer.

"Did you really see him, Sam?" Bert asks carefully, clutching his bag a little tighter to his person as they round a corner to go up the stairs. When Marco bumps into him, Bert's elbow dig into his ribs and Marco winces at the impact. Gosh, having a conversation at the stairs are one of the most inconvenient thing to have ever existed, Marco thinks. 

"Yeah. His face is all bandaged up. Real nasty-lookin'. He's been in a fight, I'd bet."

"Is it true he wears an _eyepatch_?" Mylius regards carefully, his tone semi-serious than how he was speaking just a minute ago.

"I guess? Didn't see any yesterday." Is all Samuel responds, his thoughts on the subject dwindling as they're nearing the steps to their respective classroom.

"I wonder what Mr. Smith has to talk to him about." Marco muses under his breath wondrously. Mr Smith couldn't be _personally_ interviewing the new student, would he? And he couldn't be interviewing so very late when it's assured that the new student would definitely be joining the school, because then, what would've been the point of the interview?

"Don't we all?" Mylius grieves, before a prefect comes scolding them for walking just a bit too slow.

"Nice to see a stick is still up your butt, Marlowe!" Thomas yips, just as Marlowe grunts a quick, "Oh, _fuck_ _you_."

* * *

It's true the new student wears an eyepatch.

Marco has the fortunate to see this the very next day when class 4-E was walking by, and his own class is trying their best not to gawk. Trying might be a little white lie, they were obviously _gawking_ , and while Marco wants to heartedly admit that he isn't one of the eager spectator, he just... isn't really good at lying.

Except the whole secretly falling for your best friend part, he's really got that facade locked down.

But, we're not discussing that - _so_.

"Oh, dude. The _fuck?_ " Mylius whispers once class 4-E passes completely with only a few people trailing by, while Marco tentatively touches a hand to his own face, wondering how a person could be bandaged so much. 

"I'd say he's Nick Fury, but Samuel L. Jackson has got _swag_. The new kid was just, like, mopping and stuff." Thomas chews on a chip Marco is certain someone in the class sneaks in, before he winces aloud, "Don't mention Sammy I just mentioned the _Big Initials_." Samuel doesn't like being reminded that his name is a "fake" version of the famous actor. They've dubbed it the _Big Initials_ ever since the incident wherein Samuel ignored them for a week when Thomas and Mylius hadn't stopped laughing about it every five minutes. Bert hadn't liked confrontation, and Marco spent a whole lunch trying to calm him down when he was sent to apologise in behalf of their two friends.

"I can't believe he actually wears an _eyepatch_."

Neither does Marco.

* * *

 "Listen, Marco, how are you?" Dazz approaches him one day just after he's managed to fend off Mylius, Thomas, and some other people Marco knows who are the constant source of all the cheerful way-too-loud sound. Marco has half-a-mind to ask what _exactly_ it was that the rowdy group of boys were harassing Dazz about again, but he's already _so late_ to Soccer practise as it is, and Student Council meeting had taken too long that it grinds a little on his patience.

Not much, but enough that he merely answers with a committal shrug before allowing Dazz to go straight to the point.

And straight to the point he goes, "So you know about the new kid in my classroom? You know. Talk of the school. Got real messed-up face?"

"I wouldn't call it real messed-up..." Marco admits truthfully, remembering the class they've shared just last Thursday. Sure, it wasn't... _decent_. But the new kid — turned out his name was Jean and _not_ _John_ — could walk and concentrate well enough. He was isolated, of course, and were more of a ghost people secretly stared at rather than a classmate, but he wasn't — messed-up as much or anything. In fact, if he wasn't so hunched over all the time, Marco has a feeling Jean would've appeared much better. Like a proper student, maybe.

Or, like, familiarly enough, _an athlete_.

"Listen, yeah," Dazz is rubbing the back of his neck now, and Marco slows his pace just a little. He knows Bert wouldn't have a problem with him being late — he knows all about how Student Council can just be — but Marco never likes disappointing people when they have a certain expectation out of him. He knows some usually regards it as him being a push-over because of it, but that's just who he is. "He ain't been talking to lots of people in the class for the whole week. Barely a word. Didn't even register to any of the clubs. M'kinda being asked to, like, talk to him or whatever."

"Ah." Class representative. Marco's one, himself. He forgot Dazz's ever is. He feels a little bad for it.  "Have you?"

"That's the thing. He just — you know. He _glares_."

Marco thinks he knows where this is going. "Dazz."

"I just!" Dazz squeaks, and the wrinkles on his face deepens with the conflict of whatever he's trying to explain. "Marco, come _on_. Who's better to talk to the guy everybody's given up on talking to if it isn't President of the Student Council himself, huh! You're so— _dude_. Everybody knows you. Everybody likes you. I just— _please_?"

Marco is late to practise that day, and he's even later to finally respond with a " _Sure_ " when Dazz texts him that night.

He wonders what he's just gotten himself into.


End file.
